


Nevermind

by grayorca, YearwalktheWorld



Series: Triverse [10]
Category: Castle Rock (TV), Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-15 01:24:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17519534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayorca/pseuds/grayorca, https://archiveofourown.org/users/YearwalktheWorld/pseuds/YearwalktheWorld
Summary: AU/Crossover. How do you spend that time after your for-better, for-worse partner comes back from the 'dead'?





	Nevermind

**Author's Note:**

> Just a missing scene from chapter fifteen (spoilers, duh) we took as an excuse to plug some of our OST choices for _Trifecta_.
> 
> Because we can.

Now this wasn’t awkward at all. ****  
** **

It was the first they had laid eyes on each other since… _parting_ at the boardwalk. Connor hadn’t brought it up, nor had Lieutenant Anderson seen fit to. For the moment, their unspoken agreement held: the less said, the easier the ‘transition’ would prove. ****  
** **

In theory. ****  
** **

Nicholas and Dennis seemed pleased to have him back, at any rate. Even with the additional cases of Rosemarie and Zlatko to keep them preoccupied, chasing down leads and postulating possible connections, they hadn’t frozen their ‘replacement’ primary out, as he had almost anticipated. ****  
** **

He didn’t think he would be so sorely missed by them in such a short span of time. ****  
** **

Then a call to investigate the CyberLife warehouse on the waterfront came in. ****  
** **

Trekking out to the parking garage, Anderson took to the news with his usual charm: ****  
** **

“ _Great._ Round two, you expect this to go any better?”  ****  
** **

Round two. ****  
** **

He could mean any number of things by that. Connor didn’t presume to know which took the highest priority. But if the lieutenant was referring to the last time they had had cause to attend a crime scene together… ****  
** **

How could it be the Eden Club all over again? ****  
** **

Staring out the passenger side window, watching the storefronts scroll by, Connor decided not to hazard any guesses. Yet. He could respond more effectively if he knew just what the man was thinking. A few blocks away from the station, he dared ask: ****  
** **

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but could you define… ‘this’?” ****  
** **

Hank sighed, taking one hand off the wheel to gesture between themselves with a vague impatience. “Us, having to work together. ‘Specially after the days we've been havin’.”  ****  
** **

That could also mean many things, couldn't it? The days they we were having - Hank could be referring to the multitude of grisly, obscene cases they were getting, the well-established animosity between them, or Nick's shutdown attempt. Or perhaps Hank was referring to all of this, at once.  ****  
** **

Well. What better time would there be to call a truce? ****  
** **

Hands in his lap, Connor thought on the original query again. ****  
** **

_Did_ he expect it to go better? Was that reasonable of him? ****  
** **

One gunshot to the head certainly cleared a few aspects of their working relationship up. But not all. ****  
** **

“Lieutenant, for all the… differences we’ve had, if you’re asking whether there’s a chance we can get along, for the good of a given investigation, then… yes. I think we can do better.” ****  
** **

Maybe that was a tad long winded. But it was the truth, and Hank did seem to be implying he very much wanted an honest answer. ****  
** **

“Yeah. Not just ‘for the good of an investigation’, kid,” Hank said gruffly, both hands back on the wheel, but eyes still on Connor. “I think just gettin’ along in general would be nice, don't you? I don't have a problem with your brothers.”  ****  
** **

Back to them again already. Repressing the near-automatic urge to bristle, Connor averted his eyes. Out of what nonexistent or assumed emotion he made the gesture, that much the man could decide for himself. ****  
** **

That was where they still stood: no problems with Dennis or Nick. Oh, no. ****  
** **

He, Connor, was the odd one out. Even now. Especially with his thinking of them not as proxy siblings but partners. ****  
** **

Why did that set him so far apart? Hadn’t he already demonstrated a willingness to entertain change? To adapt? ****  
** **

As for the getting along part, yes, that would be advisable. ****  
** **

Reluctantly, Connor looked back. “Meaning… you continue to find my company… dislikable.” ****  
** **

“I ain't sayin’ that, exactly. But the way we're currently goin’, I prefer their company to yours, let’s just say.” Hank gave him another glance, one eyebrow raised with a softer expression than what he may have expected. “But you did good, back at Zlatko's place. A step in the right direction, or some shit.”  ****  
** **

Oh, bonus. Talking his overemotional, clearly-unstable ‘younger brother’ of a misfunctioning - ****  
** **

_Meeeep!_ ****  
** **

Crossing an intersection, the Detroit traffic interrupted at the finest possible moment. A blue-hued, computer-driven taxi swerved as it made to speed ahead and overtake them, moving into the next available lane. A domino-effect of chiming honks emitted from the surrounding vehicles. ****  
** **

Hank's hand immediately went to slam on his own horn as well, teeth bared in almost comical rage at the car in front of them. “God _fucking_ dammit, traffic these days.”  ****  
** **

Gripping the armrest on impulse, Connor spared his clenched knuckles a belated glance before letting go. The seatbelt he wore didn’t feel like adequate protection so much all of a sudden. ****  
** **

Such were the drawbacks of being the ride-along in a car driven by an actual human. ****  
** **

“Jesus, kid, relax. I ain't gonna run anyone off the road. …Not today, anyways.” Hank took another glance at him before taking a deep breath himself, leaning away from the steering wheel. The traffic eased back into its usual, unperturbed flow. ****  
** **

Blinking, trying to school his expression back to some kind of calm, Connor nodded. “That’s - reassuring, Lieutenant.” ****  
** **

More than that, it was true. Anderson’s driving record was as spotless as his crime-free resume. ****  
** **

(Reportedly, anyway. There were still some unverified murmurs of an associate known as Pedro Aabdar that didn’t quite add up.) ****  
** **

“Pfft, good.” Leaving it at that, Hank leaned over with a hand outstretched, reaching for one of the dials - the volume dial, it seemed, to crank up whatever song would be playing. A quick scan revealed it wasn’t a preloaded CD, but a radio station. ****  
** **

And it was neither death metal or alternative rock or the policeman’s covert favorite - jazz. ****  
** **

_“Past the church and the steeple, the laundry on the hill… billboards and the buildings, memories of it still keep calling, and calling… but forget it all, I know I will…”_ ****  
** **

As automatic as any other research-based function he possessed, Connor located the basic information in mere seconds. ****  
** **

Squeeze. _East Side Story._  Circa 1981. ****  
** **

Whatever the genre or reason to listen, Anderson certainly seemed to fancy vintage music harkening back to the eighties or earlier. ****  
** **

_“Tempted, but the truth is discovered…”_ ****  
** **

Perhaps he should stop ruminating and simply try asking the man about it? ****  
** **

“You… like rhythm-and-blues?” ****  
** **

“Sure. I like a lot of music, not just rock, but I guess that's my favorite,” Hank responded, sounding perhaps the most easy going in conversation with him in awhile. “Can't go wrong with it.”  ****  
** **

Wrong? How could one ‘go wrong’ with music? Was it comparable to having a dysfunctional partner? ****  
** **

Puzzling it over, Connor only paid half as much attention the actual new wave song. Here was a safe topic to discuss, not to resist or somehow spoil. They could enjoy it for what it was en route to the docks. ****  
** **

“What other… sorts of music do you prefer?” ****  
** **

Hank was quiet for a moment, before letting out a bemused huff of air. “Uh, I think you know them all, kid. Stuff from when I was a kid, growin’ up… that's what I like to listen to. What about you? What do you like listenin’ to?”  ****  
** **

Technically, he wasn’t supposed to like anything - just as he wasn’t supposed to attribute male pronouns to himself. But doing so made integration seem all the more feasible, all the smoother. He could temporarily embrace the concept. ****  
** **

There were so many kinds of music out there to consider. ****  
** **

On second thought… maybe _too_ many. ****  
** **

“I don’t know.” Hastily, as to not seem dismissive, he added, “That is, I haven’t - sampled enough genres to form an… opinion.” ****  
** **

Yet another concept CyberLife would frown at him for considering, beyond its pertaining to a given case. _Silly prototype, you’re not supposed to do that._ ****  
** **

_“_ Hmph. Well, we can fix that,” Hank said casually, turning the music up a bit more, but not loud enough to drown out their conversation. “This song, whaddya think about it?”  ****  
** **

“ _...a storm is threat'nin’ my very life today, if I don't get some shelter, I'm gonna fade away…”_ ****  
** **

Conversely, this song was even more dated than the first. And certainly not in the same subgenre one might expect of an oldies station. But in terms of notoriety, the band was arguably more well-remembered. ****  
** **

The Rolling Stones. _Let It Bleed._ Circa 1969. ****  
** **

Picking apart the frequencies and instrumentation used, besides the scratchiness of a track copied for transfer more times than could be counted, it wasn’t a very high quality listening experience. ****  
** **

Connor reported as much: “There are several distorted beats throughout. Your ear wouldn’t be able to detect them, but the gravelly noise at the backside of the lyrics resulted from - ” ****  
** **

“Oh, Jesus, no, just - stop.” Using his hand again, Hank silenced him with a wave and a scoff, but not without some amusement. “Do you like it, or not? No fuckin’ analyzing. Like, or don't like.”  ****  
** **

Frowning, Connor listened again. There was a lengthy guitar interlude between verses. And despite the auditory mess it actually resembled, with its overabundant percussion, the words themselves were as poignant as they were vaguely ironic. ****  
** **

_“Gimme, gimme shelter, or I’m gonna fade away…”_ ****  
** **

Like or don’t like. Such a narrow spectrum of choices to pick from. ****  
** **

Which one was… correct? Or was that the whole point? Simply selecting one was a means of being right. ****  
** **

Refusing to answer wouldn’t warn him any pluses. ****  
** **

He donned another ponderous frown. “I suppose I… don’t. It’s not a bad song, but… it’s too relevant. If that makes sense?” ****  
** **

“You relate to it too much, huh?” Giving him a new look of appreciation, Hank's hand drifted back to the knob to change channels, not yet turning it. “I can understand that. Reminds you too much of shit.”  ****  
** **

Despite how tempting it was to elaborate, explain just why it provoked such a reaction, Connor didn’t. The policeman’s preemptively-provided answer sufficed. There was no use in reiterating. ****  
** **

No convenient near-accident cropped up in the next few seconds. The android watched the tuning needle slide across the radio’s face, snippets of garbled music making their way from the speakers as Hank searched for another station. ****  
** **

Their ETA to the CyberLife docks was still some ten minutes away. And counting. ****  
** **

That was time enough for three songs, approximately. Most didn’t extend past the four minute mark on average. ****  
** **

_“-got to be good lookin’ ‘cause he’s so hard to see.”_ ****  
** **

Letting out a hum of approval, Hank turned the radio up again marginally to show it. “Good cover. Not often you can say those words.”  ****  
** **

A cover as in a repeat. Now this was a song that had been parroted several times since it’s inception. ****  
** **

Eyes directed out the window, Connor held off on researching it. Somehow, it was even more relatable than The Rolling Stones. Just the idea of repetition, paired with the amended -52 on his jacket, evoked another unpleasant sensation. ****  
** **

But for the sake of conversation, he looked back and verbalized a reply: “You prefer originals?” ****  
** **

“Usually. Every now and then, some band doesn't fuck it up with a cover, though.” Nodding his head to the song, Hank pointed to the band in question’s name as it rolled by, even though his stand-in partner could look it up for himself. “Good on them.”  ****  
** **

Godsmack - a band with a far-heavier metal influence than the preceding Aerosmith. The cover song was recorded in 2012. Hank Anderson would have been twenty-seven years of age. ****  
** **

Fitting. Even a police academy valedictorian was given to liking media based upon such wanton disorder. The timeline bared it out. ****  
** **

It would’ve also been long before the unspoken accident and it’s purported effects. ****  
** **

“Come Together” wound down. ****  
** **

Connor tried for an opinionated verdict before being prompted. He could understand the crux of this experiment. ****  
** **

“That wasn’t unbearable.” ****  
** **

“Glad it wasn't tortuous to you,” Hank muttered, rolling his eyes at Connor before returning them to the road. “But you still didn't like it, eh?”  ****  
** **

“No.” ****  
** **

Because why mince words? It was already apparent how his well-crafted arguments were usually for naught against Anderson’s preconceived bias. ****  
** **

In either case, their time for self-indulgent musical sampling wouldn’t be indefinite. ****  
** **

The next band to rotate forward was equal parts familiar and not. ****  
** **

_“Come as you are, as you were, as I want you to be…”_ ****  
** **

Quickly, the android fixed his gaze somewhere out the windshield. ****  
** **

_“Take your time, hurry up, choice is yours, don’t be late…”_ ****  
** **

He needn’t give away what about this song bothered him so. ****  
** **

“You’re a hard one to please,” Hank sighed, but he didn't sound upset, or aggravated. Perhaps he was glad as well, to just have something to talk about that didn't involve work. ****  
** **

Even if it wasn’t panning out quite as he hoped. ****  
** **

They listened in silence again. Nirvana’s work was many things, besides deceptively mellow. And the lyrics of this piece hit even more relevant chords. ****  
** **

Neither of them mentioned it. ****  
** **

“Well, I've tried. Why don't you try, now?”  ****  
** **

Connor blinked out of the temporary stupor, pausing to look at the worn-down dial, a refusal on the tip of his tongue before he remembered his latent promise to try and get along. No, this didn’t have anything to do with a case. But it wasn’t something he couldn’t do, period. If he wasn’t meant to, CyberLife would’ve installed stronger blocks to prevent it from happening, and he wouldn’t be so intuitive to boot. ****  
** **

Double-edged sword, or so they said. ****  
** **

“Is there anything I should… avoid?” ****  
** **

“Nah. Just change it, if you don't like it,” Hank said casually, before straightening up and turning back toward him with narrowed eyes. “No country, least not modern. Anything but that.”  ****  
** **

Country. There was the negative exception. Everything else was fair game. Odd how it didn’t seem to matter if the given artists were human or android. Connor had thought that would be the first rule out of Hank’s mouth. ****  
** **

He didn’t take long in actually figuring out the radio’s capabilities. With deft exactness, he screened from one reachable wavelength to the next. Choppy bits of radio jockey dialogue filtered through, interspersed with snippets of song. ****  
** **

_Click. Click. Click._ ****  
** **

The old dial complained accordingly at being manipulated by such steely, unforgiving fingers. ****  
** **

ETA -00:05:20 ****  
** **

He didn’t actually need to find something he liked, did he? Could simply leave it on a station and declare yes, that is preferable. ****  
** **

Problem was Hank Anderson would see through it in a millisecond. ****  
** **

_(I see how you show yourselves to me)_ ****  
** **

Skilled as Connor was at the art of deception, he wasn’t _that_ good. ****  
** **

Unless… ****  
** **

_Clickclickclick._ ****  
** **

Without warning he dialed the knob back to silence, abruptly sitting back in his seat. ****  
** **

The sedan slowed accordingly as the pressure on the gas pedal let up. Hank frowned, turning to look at him again with one eyebrow raised. Without any words, it was clear he was questioning Connor on what that was all about.  ****  
** **

Time to fathom up an excuse. ****  
** **

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. Nothing… impressed me as listenable.” ****  
** **

“Really?” Hank didn't sound too convinced, shaking his head at him for a second. “Nothin’ at all? You even hear anything, the way you were turnin’ that?”  ****  
** **

“I only require trace amounts to analyze, Lieutenant,” Connor explained, half hoping he sounded the part. “That goes for auditory clues as much as any tiny smudge of thirium.” ****  
** **

“You can't really know if you like a song from a second of some fancy analyzing,” Hank said to him, sounding increasingly less convinced and frustrated by his explanation. “You have to _listen_ to it.”  ****  
** **

Well. ****  
** **

It had been worth a try. ****  
** **

Shooting the radio one last sullen glare, he twisted the dial one full wrist rotation over. Picking a frequency at random, he only dialed the volume down on the unspoken off chance Hank didn’t approve. ****  
** **

_-ening to Lite 96 FM. Our ad-free hour will now continue._ ****  
** **

“Change it if _you_ please, then,” Connor retorted, not expecting anything in the realm of likable to be broadcast. ****  
** **

Hank let out a huff that was decidedly less amused than his last, one hand dismissing him with a wave as he focused back on the road before them.  ****  
** **

_“The scent of daybreak and summer mornings, clutch to your heart, like all your favorite dreams. The serenade of the frozen city, this restless noise, like a desperate hope…”_ ****  
** **

The first track was certainly not anywhere in the same league as “Gimme Shelter” or “Come Together”. The lyrics were far more open to impressionistic interpretation. The melodies were far easier on the ear. ****  
** **

Connor half expected Anderson’s dispirited reaction to fall along the lines of “The hell is that?” ****  
** **

Instead he simply sighed, giving the radio a glance before going to turn it up. Hank seemed to have an eclectic music taste, even if it was at random. ****  
** **

Vertical Horizon. _The Lost Mile._ Circa 2018. ****  
** **

Paying half attention to the flowing lyrics, Connor refolded his arms. “This one - doesn’t bother you?” ****  
** **

“Nah, I like it. Since I, you know, actually listened to it,” Hank gave a gentle jab at him, but without any venom. Just a tease at the way he had been going about selecting his music beforehand. “What about you, any luck this time?”  ****  
** **

“...Maybe. I’ll let you know once it’s finished.” ****  
** **

_“The smallest triumph, the frequent failures, still we try again, we try…”_ ****  
** **

Fitting. ****  
** **

To try anything new was what this premise hinged on. ****  
** **

Just for the sake of their working relationship. Nothing more. ****  
** **

——- ****  
** **

Activity at the docks had been momentarily stayed until the authorities arrived. No trucks had gone in or out. Besides the pitifully-small, unassuming human crew, most of the automated equipment couldn’t exactly be questioned as to what it saw. It didn’t matter how many legs it did or didn’t walk on. ****  
** **

Five minutes after being let through the gate, Hank shut the car off. ****  
** **

Ten seconds later, Connor remembered to reopen his eyes. ****  
** **

“That good, huh?” Without waiting for a half-satisfactory answer, Anderson unbuckled his seatbelt. The immediate pause he got in reply said one was inbound. “They’re no Nirvana, but you like what you like. Don’t let me tell you different.”


End file.
